At me you smiled, but unbeguiled,I saw the snare and I retired.Tennyson.
At me you smiled, but unbeguiled,I saw the snare and I retired.
Tennyson.
The Monday appointed for the fancy ball arrived, and still nothing had been heard of Hargrave. Mrs. Villars fretted, and Caroline assumed a haughty and sulky indifference. During the day, every knock and ring brought disappointment, till the lateness of the hour warned them to prepare for the ball. It was then that Caroline, for the first time, announced her intention of remaining at home. In vain did Mrs. Villars remonstrate that her fancy Sultana's dress had cost more than twice as much as her sisters', and it was of as little use to flatter her vanity by representing that she would be the most elegantly dressed in the whole ball-room; Caroline's temper was not to be conquered in a single night. Tired of persuasion, her mother stormed, and changing entreaties for threats, commanded her to go; but Caroline was obstinate, and nothing but bodily force could have moved her from the arm-chair, in which she had settled herself for the evening, with a candle close to her elbow, and a new novel in her lap. She would not go, she declared, with a haughtiness which would have suited a more unworthy proposal. Nor would she move from her chair, even to give the assistance of her advice at her sisters' toilet, or, in any other way betray the slightest interest in an amusement for which they had all been so long and so busily preparing.
Extremely chagrined, Mrs. Villars was compelled to submit, and, as she gave a last glance at the beautiful velvet dress which taste and money had alike been expended to prepare, the bitterness of her disappointment was not a little increased by remembering that this fruitless purchase had been made with part of the loan so hardly wrung from her sister; and it was with an uneasy sensation of annoyance, that she led her fair daughters that night into the crowded ball-room.
Lucy, with a heart upon the rebound, and flushed with the determination of piquing Clair, if possible, had never looked more lovely than she did that night. A white dress of the greatest simplicity distinguished her character, as Finella, while her long light curls fell in careless tresses over her neck and shoulders, forming a veil, which enhanced the beauty they seemed bent upon concealing. How wildly beat the heart in that illregulated bosom? Her simply going to the ball would, she imagined, shew herself free from any deference to Arthur Clair's opinion, and if any thoughts of Amy Lesly came unbidden amongst the revelry, she banished the remembrance by a lighter laugh or a bolder sally. She could not fail to attract attention, and many strangers were anxious to be introduced to the fairy Villars, as she was that night called; but one only attracted, and soon absorbed her attention, he was a young man of a prepossessing appearance, with large melting eyes and a low persuasive voice. Evidently attracted by her appearance, he had obtained an introduction, under the name of Beauclerc. He waltzed to perfection, and the implied compliments he every now and then offered, in a tone and voice of great sweetness, Lucy took for deeper homage than he perhaps intended, and the ready blush deepened on her cheek, and her eye sparkled when she suffered herself to be led to a seat apart from the dancers, where his witty remarks afforded her ample amusement. So readily, indeed, flowed his language, that the absent Clair sunk into nothing, a mere every-day flirt, compared with this fascinating new acquaintance. Besides, he possessed the power of drawing her out, and made her feel quite clever, by leading her to display herself in a new light. He listened to her remarks with the most flattering attention, and resigned her to the gentleman who next claimed her hand for the dance, with apparent reluctance. She was then surprised to find that she had as little to say as formerly, and that her new partner's observations on the fashionable news of the day had become quite uninteresting. She was not, therefore, sorry to find Mr. Beauclerc again by her side, when the dance was over, and she had taken a seat by her mamma.
"Can you tell me?" she said, turning to him, with a smile, "why, just now, I had plenty to say, but immediately I began to dance with that gentleman, I felt so dull I could not say any thing at all. I have been labouring at conversation, I assure you, with as much industry and dulness as the noted donkey at Carrisbrooke Castle employs in his task, but with far less success, for he succeeds in fetching up some water—I am afraid I cannot say the same, of a single idea. Would you believe that I twice observed on the band, once on the room, and three times on the lights. Can you tell me why, since you seem to have the genius of explaining every thing?"
A well pleased smile passed over his lips as he replied, only, by taking out a small hunting watch which he quietly opened, and then handing it to her, he presented her at the same time with the key of hisescritoir.
"Will you," said he "oblige me by winding this watch."
"Oblige you," replied Lucy, laughing, "by breaking the spring, I suppose—that key belongs to your desk."
"You give me the very answer I desired. You cannot wind my watch, because I have not given you the right key. This illustrates what I am going to say.
"There are some minds suited to other minds, as this watch is to its key. This beautiful piece of mechanism," said he, playing with the watch in his hand, "would be to me, or to any one else, perfectly useless without the key, which, however simple in its construction, is yet so necessary to the watch, that it alone can render it of any service. It is so with the human mind, we may live for years without being fortunate enough to meet with one answering mind which can unlock the treasures of our heart, and the secret springs of feeling, and of thought, and bring them into exercise. It is the sympathy of those around us which we need, the power which others possess of understanding us; to place ourselves in a true light—do you understand me?"
"Partly," replied Lucy, hesitating, and looking down.
"Partly, but not entirely," returned Mr. Beauclerc, repeating her words, with an emphasis, which argued a slight degree of superiority, to which Lucy readily bowed. "Yet I would say you were made to enjoy these things as well as understand them. Nay, you must not think me rude if I say I read as much when first introduced to you; and that I felt I should be understood if I ventured to speak in a way which the world too often ridicules, because it does not comprehend it. It is only the simple language of truth; yet, because it is not exactly the same as the hacknied language of the world, it is regarded as nonsense."
Lucy did not quite understand all he said, but she felt that she was receiving an admiration more flattering, because paid to her understanding; and she only broke up the conversation after repeated invitations to the dance, and her pulse fluttered quickly as she heard, or fancied she heard, a sigh from the accomplished Beauclerc, as she gracefully resigned herself to a young officer, upon whose arm she was soon whirled past him in the giddy round.
Mrs. Villars smiled with secret pride, when some of her friends rallied her on her daughter's conquest, and she took an early opportunity of asking a friend who he might be.
"Have you not heard?" was the reply, "that he has brought his own carriage, and two hunters, to the Castle, and Ball—and, besides, his person speaks for itself, it is sodistingué."
Mrs. Villars sought for Lucy, to impart these particulars, but was not sorry to find her waltzing with Mr. Beauclerc.
"What a handsome couple they would make," thought she; "and, oh, if Caroline and Hargrave were but here, I should be quite happy." But she little dreamt of the pleasure yet in store for that evening.
Mr. Villars soon beginning to feel impatient, she was compelled to draw her party together. Beauclerc accompanied them to the door; and as he handed Lucy into the carriage, she fancied his hand trembled. With this pleasing impression, she leant back in the fly which conveyed them home, and gave herself up to pleasant reverie, and castle building. She ran over every word which had passed in their long conversations, and thought they were an easy beginning to a more pleasing acquaintance than they often met with—she began then to feel quite surprised that she ever had given a tear to Captain Clair.
"Willingly," she said to herself; "will I resign him to Mabel, if she will have him; yet there was something in him I liked, though I cannot well remember what it was now. Why, he never talked in six weeks, half the sense which Mr. Beauclerc has thrown into one conversation. I feel quite grateful to him for deserting me, since, otherwise, I never should have met this very superior man, who, as he himself observed, though not in plain words exactly, possesses the key to my mind—and does not that seem like affection?"
These pleasing considerations were interrupted by their stopping at their own door, paying the driver, and running gaily up stairs.
"Hark," said Mrs. Villars, "there are voices in the drawing-room, I am certain. There are, I do believe."
"Why mamma," said Maria, who, with more courage, had applied her eye to the key-hole; it is only Caroline talking to somebody. When, upon this information, they opened the door, Caroline was discoveredtête-à-tête, with a strange gentleman, with as much ease and nonchalance as if at the regular calling hour.
There was a slight tone of triumph in her voice as she said:—
"Colonel Hargrave, papa?"
"Oh, Colonel," said Mrs. Villars, taking the words out of her husband's mouth; "I can scarcely forgive you for obliging us to go to the ball without you."
"He has excused himself most ably," said Caroline; "the death of a friend detained him."
"I assure you," said he, with the greatest courtesy, "that nothing but so serious a reason would have prevented my keeping my appointment; and I trust, my dear sir, that you will excuse my keeping your dinner waiting on Saturday; but, as I said, just now, some very sad circumstances detained me on my road."
"Pray, say not another word," said Mrs. Villars; "we are very sorry for you, I am sure."
"I suppose," said Maria, "you did not arrive in time to join us?"
"Do you think," said Caroline, "that he could go to a fancy ball after attending the death-bed of a friend?"
"No, truly," said he, "I was in no humor for such gaiety, and was more pleased by the quiet welcome I have already received."
"Caroline has only expressed the feelings we should all entertain," said Mrs. Villars, smiling benignly, "and, indeed, I am most happy to see my truant nephew, at last."
Hargrave slightly started at the word nephew, not being able to divine how his distant connection with the family could be twisted into so close a relationship.
"I trust," continued Mrs. Villars, "that Caroline has taken every care of you, and that you have had some refreshment."
"Indeed she has been most kind," replied he politely. "She would not allow me to persuade her to retire to rest, when I had once announced my intention of remaining up to introduce myself. I will, however, no longer tax your patience; but will go to my own room, if you will allow me."
They accordingly separated, the Colonel lingering to say a few words to his host, and the ladies retiring to a kind of mutual dressing-room.
"Well, my love," said Mrs. Villars to her eldest daughter, "I will never blame you again, for I see you know how to manage without my interference. Nothing could have turned out better."
She felt, indeed, half inclined to idolise her, for the very ill-temper, which, in the early part of the evening, she had more justly blamed. Caroline, in her turn, looked upon them all with an air of superiority, as if the accident had been the result of her prudence.
"Indeed," she said, "he is a most sensible and entertaining man, and, I dare say, if the truth were known, my evening was the most pleasant after all."
"Not quite," replied Lucy, "for I also met with a most sensible and entertaining man."
"Yes," echoed Maria, "such a handsome man too—Hargrave is nothing to him. Every one was wondering who he was, and remarking on his attentions to Lucy."
"What, is Lucy taken in again?" said Caroline, with jealous bitterness. "I thought once in a season was sufficient."
Lucy coloured deeply and angrily, for it was not the first wound she had received.
"Well," said she to herself, "I will be closer this time—I will have no one to abuse my confidence by taunting speeches."
"Come, come," interposed Mrs. Villars, "do not let us quarrel with fortune; for my part, I feel inclined to be on good terms with all the world. Nothing could have been more propitious than your meeting in such a romantic manner. What were you doing when he came in?—at your harp, I hope. Well, how do you like him?"
"Why, Mamma, I think you believe in love at first sight. I am not so easily won."
"Nor the Colonel either, I dare say," said Maria.
"I will thank you, Miss Maria, to remember what you say, and to whom you say it."
"That I very seldom forget," retorted Maria, as she laid down her Swiss hat and ribbons, with a sigh, to think that she might not display them again.
"Come, come," again urged Mrs. Villars, "surely, Caroline, you can give us your opinion of him. You are so quick at reading character."
"That may be," replied Caroline, "but I scarcely think the right advantage to take of discrimination is to retail a private conversation, for the sake of subjecting a friend to everybody's quizzing observations."
Here she glanced angrily at Maria.
"Well," returned the latter, perfectly undisturbed, "is it come to friend and private, already, that, at least, sounds like something, and if you will conquer the good nabob in your own way, I suppose we must excuse being kept in the dark, as the cat politely observed to the mouse, when he was introduced to him in the cupboard."
"I think he is very handsome," said Selina.
"Yes," said Maria, "well enough since he possesses good eyes, good teeth, good forehead, nose and eyes—all tolerably well put together. Yes, I suppose he might be called handsome. I will ask Miss Foster, she is such a judge of masculine beauty."
"I beg you will do no such thing," said Caroline; "he must be considered as one of our own family, and I do not see what right Miss Foster has to pass her observations on us."
"I am afraid you are not quite so rigid with regard to Miss Lovelace," retorted Maria.
Mrs. Villars saw that much bitter remark was rising, and knowing that nothing could be obtained from Caroline, dismissed the conclave, which had assembled at so late an hour, only in consequence of the importance of affairs under deliberation; and she retired to rest satisfied with the course events had taken, and fully impressed with respect for Caroline's judgment. She, meanwhile, in the retirement of her own room, condescended to give Selina an account of the evening's conversation, by which means Mrs. Villars heard the whole the next day from Selina, whose more gentle temper rendered her the general recipient of her mother's schemes.
He walked he knew not whither;Doubt was on his daily path; and duties shewed not certain.Tupper.
He walked he knew not whither;Doubt was on his daily path; and duties shewed not certain.
Tupper.
Colonel Hargrave was a little past the age when hearts are easily won—and the ready courtesy with which he had performed his part of the eveningtête-à-tête, might have shown a less prejudiced judge, that he was too accustomed to beauty, grace, and all the endless charms so bewitching to a younger man, to make him very easily fall into the snare which had been laid for him.
However, he had but very lately landed in England, after some years spent in the East; and though like most English travellers, he had been, at first, delighted with the marvels and records of ancient days, which that quarter of the globe so lavishly affords, as well as with the customs and habits of a people with whom he had delighted to mingle, he was not sorry to find himself once again in merry, busy England—one of a people whose interests are more of the present than of the past, where the rapid march of improvement and discovery, form a striking contrast to the splendid dreams of past Eastern glory. Then the comfort of social society—home with all its thousand associations of comfort and tranquillity were not indifferent to him, and he was not sorry to find a gayer welcome than the lonely halls of his own beautiful Aston might have offered him. His sleeping apartment had been arranged with a care that made it seem luxurious after the cabin fare to which he had lately been accustomed, and he paid more attention to the trifles which surrounded him than he had ever before done, for of such trifles he, for the first time, perceived the importance, since all combined gave a feeling of homely comfort which he felt he had scarcely missed till now, when once more in the enjoyment of it. Opening from this room was another, arranged with the most studious attention to ease and appearance. A fire blazed a warm welcome, after his day's journey, and everything conspired to make his little sitting-room one suited to a gentleman's fancy—and by affording him a place of retreat, he perceived that he would be allowed to enjoy the company of his cousins only when he was inclined. In all this there was such an evident desire to please, that he could not help feeling a little flattered, though, perhaps, as representative of the family credit and opulence, he might, at the same time, have felt it to be his due, and a necessary appendage to the invitation.
Tempted by the blazing fire, he threw himself upon the horse-hair sofa, which was near it, and fixed his eyes upon its flickering and varying light, but as he did so, his countenance soon lost the air of courteous pleasantry, which had a short while before possessed it, and he appeared lost in deep and even bitter thought.
The grave accusations of old Giles, and the lighter description of Clair, were both true; and yet a few words more of his mental history is needed fully to unravel his character.
During the life of his mother, he had been the pride of her existence, and keenly sensible of the quicksands which await the young man on his entrance into life—she had watched his opening manhood with the most tender solicitude. Her death, however, left him entirely to the care of his father—and he, thinking the hot-house system of preservation no longer befitting a youth of talent and ability, sent him abroad, first with a tutor, and afterwards alone, in order that he might acquire a knowledge of the world, and the ease, conversation, and polish, which foreign travel is calculated to give. In this he was fully successful. A short residence in the gayest city in Europe, so called forth young Hargrave's natural refinement of taste, that few could find fault with the manners of the finished gentleman whom Paris sent back from its school. But in Paris he had been thrown with those of professed Infidel principles—and amongst them he found men of superior talent and great intellect, who, while they extorted his own secret admiration, rendered him a homage to his youthful talent of the most flattering kind. By them he was rashly led to argue on the tenets of natural and revealed religion, and to discuss points, which are rather matter for faith than comprehension—and he entered on these questions with a spirit of which older men have not been innocent, rather seeking to display his own powers in the argument, than to do honor to the truth. The contest was eagerly courted by those who only kept their hearts at ease by engaging in the excitement of perpetual warfare. They were subtle reasoners, and Hargrave found himself coping with them, only with the greatest difficulty.
But, who can unlock the secret mysteries of the human mind, or give a clue to its strange inconsistencies? Even while he argued, the dreadful doubt passed into his own mind, and, wondering and amazed, he found himself an unbeliever in the faith he had so warmly defended! Too often have those who have become the most devoted christians at an after period of their life, had to mourn such infidelity, though, for a time only; and had Hargrave resorted to the simple means used by his old tenant, whom his thoughtless words had led astray, he, like old Giles, might have been restored to comfort—but he only rushed deeper and deeper into argument, and the more confirmed in error—he, at length, ended by declaring himself vanquished, and thanking his new friends for having opened his eyes to his own superstition. Thus eagerly received by a brilliantcoterie, adorned by wit, genius, and learning, he learnt to boast of the sentiments he at first deplored, and to wonder that he should have been weak enough to recognise any other.
Where then was the reward for a mother's untiring self-devoted love to her son, through the years of infancy and youth? Despair not, fond mothers—"cast thy bread upon the waters, for thou shalt find it after many days"—aftermanydays, remember, and be patient.
One result, was, however, evident in this wild fit of recklessness—under the pretence of keeping his intellect pure and unclouded, he preserved the same rigid principles she had recommended, and in this he was firm, spite of the ribaldry of his companions. "No one," he said, proudly, "should be able to affirm that he had abandoned his religion because too weak to obey its laws." His friends, therefore, left off their jests and boasted that no professor of revealed religion could be a better moralist, or a more virtuous man. But such virtue must ever be but an unsteady light, which is founded on no firmer basis than self-opinion, and Hargrave might have started when in foreign lands, he had lavished the most profuse charity on those around him, had he remembered how blind he was to the wants and sufferings of those who at home called him master.
Too late his father's death summoned him to Aston, to take possession of the immense wealth which he thus inherited. After but a brief stay, events induced him to leave his native country, and entering the Indian army, he sought employment for his restless energies on the banks of the Indus. There his military career had not been without honor, and why he had returned to England, scarcely himself could tell.
There he sat, an older, if not a wiser and better man. Dark thoughts, like heavy clouds, seemed to pass over his mind, as with his hand supporting his head, he gazed fixedly, but vacantly on the fire. Perhaps he was thinking of his early days, and of the mother who had taught him to hallow them. Perhaps he was remembering how unable he had been to build the fabric even of human and short lived earthly happiness, on so weak and failing a foundation as his own unassisted virtue. For, to his heart, common joys had been tainted. The sabbath chaunt had brought no melody to his ear, reminding him of the rest which its Maker had hallowed. "The gentle flowers that stooping o'er the wilderness—speak of joy, and faith, and love," had seemed to him only a difficult clause in the argument of an adversary. Such might have been the dark remembrances of the hour, for he swayed himself to and fro, as if in an agony of spirit, nor did he retire to rest till the grey dawn warned him of the necessity of seeking repose.
Wisdom revenges, saidThe world; is quick and deadly of resentment;Thrusts at the very shadow of affront,And hastes by death to wipe its honor clean.Pollock.
Wisdom revenges, saidThe world; is quick and deadly of resentment;Thrusts at the very shadow of affront,And hastes by death to wipe its honor clean.
Pollock.
The next morning Lucy was down stairs by eight o'clock, appearing scarcely to feel any fatigue from the gaieties of the last evening. The servants, taking advantage of their mistress's slumbers, had not been very careful to rouse themselves early; and as Lucy wandered about the house, she found nothing but rooms half closed, and maids with sweeping brushes, dusters, and open windows, forming no tempting welcome on a cold morning. Yet, chill as was prospect both within and without, she felt nothing cheerless that morning, and, putting on her bonnet and cloak, she went out, saying she would be back by breakfast time. She found the atmosphere thick and humid, and cold drops quickly gathered on her veil. The streets, under the influence of a slight thaw, were wet with black mud; but she quickly threaded her way through them, till reaching Milsom Street, she took her way towards the higher parts of the town. Few people were stirring, shops were only just open, and the occupiers engaged in filling their empty windows with a display for the day. The light-hearted girl scarcely giving a thought to any thing around her, soon reached the Circus, a fine but gloomy part of the town. Time and the weather have cast a black shade over its formerly clean white stone, which gives it an appearance of sadness, which is shared by the sombre hue of the evergreens, which ornament its garden. To one of its houses Lucy hurried, and after a short pause, was ushered into it by an old man, apparently butler in the establishment. The room into which she was shown, was upon the ground floor, and shared in no very slight degree, the appearance of the outside of the buildings. Its furniture was dark green, and the curtains, with their many heavy folds had been suffered to trespass too much upon the windows. There was an oak wainscoting round the room, and here and there some old portrait frowned down from the walls. The room was rather long than wide, and lighted by windows only on the one side, looking on the street; this often made it appear dark, but, in contrast to every thing about the place, a bright fire blazed upon the hearth, and a small table, with a snowy cloth, supported the hissing urn, and a frugal but snug breakfast. Seated beside it was rather a young looking lady. There was a certain air of unmistakeable dignity over her whole appearance; her features, though irregular, were intellectual and commanding, and the sparkling eye wandered with restless energy. Her hair was black as an Indian's, and she might have been called beautiful, but for the melancholy, which, as a veil, seemed thrown round her, stilling every quicker impulse into chill composure. She held theTimesin her hand, folded at the leading article, but she laid it down and rose, on Lucy's entrance, with a look of surprise and pleasure.
"Why love," said she, "I thought you would be sleeping for an hour or two yet, after the fatigues of last night. I am sure no common event would bring you out this foggy morning, but sit down and I will give you some breakfast, for I am sure you have had none; let me take off your shawl, and then you shall have some of your favorite chocolate, and tell me your news as you drink it."
"I could not sleep," said Lucy, "and as no one was up I thought I would come and see why you were not at the ball as you promised last night."
"My poor uncle was so bad with his gout, that I had not the resolution to leave him, and you know how little will tempt me to stay away from such things," said Miss Foster, with a sigh.
"Ah," said Lucy, smiling, "clever people like you do not need such frivolities; but what would my poor vacant brain do without them."
"Why is it vacant? But you have not, like me, given up the phantom happiness, or you would prefer seeking something more substantial."
Lucy glanced at the leading article, and gave a slight shrug.
"You may come to that at last," replied her friend, with a moonlight smile, which passed almost immediately away, "really you do not know what a pleasure the morning papers give me—they make me remember that I am a denizen of the world, and besides, a daughter of England, and then I forget how lonely I am as an individual."
"But why lonely," returned Lucy, "the slightest effort on your part would surround you with friends, and you might have a host of acquaintances instead of my poor self, whom alone you admit, and I enjoy that privilege, merely from accident."
"You do not quite know me yet," said Miss Foster, "such society is no longer tolerable. And I might never have known even you, had not your horse thrown you at our very door, and forced me to open it. There was, indeed, something so pleasing in being able to nurse you for a few days, that I became insensibly attached to you. But such accidents seldom occur, and I care not to go through the common ordeal of acquiring acquaintances."
"Well," said Lucy, "when I am inclined to turn anchorite, Millie, you must let me in, and I will come and live with you; but I am rather of opinion that the world is a mirror which reflects back our smiles and our frowns."
"Is that sentiment your own?" enquired her companion, quickly.
"No—second hand from a delightful partner that I met last night. Such a very nice man—quite beyond my poor powers of description; everything he said was so clever, and so new, it seemed as if he had read more of the human heart than any one I ever met. He talked to me nearly all the evening."
"Imprudent girl!" exclaimed Miss Foster.
"Oh, if you take everything I say so seriously," said Lucy, poutingly, "I will not tell you anything."
"What kind of looking man was he?" said Miss Foster, without heeding her remark.
"He must be thirty, at least," said Lucy—"with light brown hair, deep blue eyes, rather tall, and very nice looking—not quite so handsome as Captain Clair; but then his talking was the fascinating part."
"And what did he talk about?"
"Oh, nothing in particular," said Lucy, coloring.
"And did you hear his name?" enquired Miss Foster, almost restraining her breath.
"Beauclerc," said Lucy; "is it not a pretty name?"
"You must have nothing more to say to him, if he talks such in a way that you blush already. Will you promise me?" said she, most violently.
"You must give me some reason."
"Imprudent girl, you must take my warning."
"If he were making love, I might consider," said Lucy; "but, as a common acquaintance, and a delightful dancer, you must give me some reason for cutting him."
"You are rash," repeated Miss Foster; "do not have anything to say to him, or you will repent it."
"I am not to be led blind-folded," said Lucy; "and you must prove me in danger before I can think such advice needed. Pray let us talk of something else—my poorbeauxalways tease you."
There was a very palpable tinge of vanity in this last remark, which caused Miss Foster to bite her lips, as if suppressing violent emotion, and to remain silent, though the uneasy flash of her dark eye betrayed something of the violence of her temper.
At this inopportune moment, a knock at the hall door announced another early visitor.
The door of their sitting-room was, after an interval of some minutes, cautiously opened by the venerable butler, who, with some embarrassment, presented a card to his mistress on a silver salver.
Lucy almost trembled as she saw that the storm which had been gathering on her friend's countenance was now ready to burst forth.
Her cheeks, which had a moment before been brightly flushed, turned to a livid white, as she brushed the card from the salver without touching it, and then stamped upon it with impotent violence.
Lucy's eyes fell upon the name—it was that of "Beauclerc"—and, unperceived, she took it up, and concealed it in the folds of her dress from further indignity.
"I am not at home," said Miss Foster, in a decisive tone to the aged butler, who regarded the scene with more concern than surprise, and left the room slowly and sadly. The front door was presently heard to close. As if ashamed of the passion into which she had been betrayed, Miss Foster seated herself, at once, and tried to resume her usual coldness of demeanor.
"See," said she, "the way in which I dare to treat him, and judge for yourself if he is worthy to be received as an admirer of yours."
"I think," said Lucy, recovering her animation, "you have shewn yourself very little my friend to treat a man with indignity, when I had expressed a contrary opinion of him."
Miss Foster regarded her rising spleen with an indifferent coldness, which made her still more angry.
"I say," she reiterated, "that it is a most unkind and ungrateful way of returning my confidence."
"Wilful child!" exclaimed Miss Foster, "will you never be guided for your own advantage?"
"I am no child!" exclaimed Lucy; "and if I do choose a guide, it shall be one who can rule her own temper."
"You should allow for the emotion you cannot understand," said Miss Foster, gravely; "but leave me now, Lucy, and do not be angry—we are both excited—and may say things we do not mean."
"Leave you," exclaimed her offended friend, starting up, and putting on her shawl with trembling hands—"I will not stay another moment where I am not wanted."
Miss Foster's head had sunk upon her hand, perhaps she was too deeply absorbed in her own feelings to notice Lucy's anger, till suddenly raising her eyes, in which thick tears were gathering—she watched her movements with a curious interest—but Lucy was already at the door—and gasping a "good morning," she hurried away, leaving her friend to the unpleasant thoughts she was indulging.
It was not anger alone which led Lucy to leave the house so hastily, for she was curious to see her pleasing companion of the night before, if but for a moment. She was not disappointed, for, as she opened the door, she perceived him standing on the other side of the way.
Could he have seen her enter the house? and, might not his having done so, been the reason of his early call on Miss Foster. Vanity is a ready prompter; and she had not proceeded many steps before she believed the delusive argument, and attributed her friend's warnings to jealousy. She had scarcely arrived at this conclusion, before she perceived Mr. Beauclerc crossing to her side of the way, and she gave a bow and a smile, which proved a ready inducement for him to join her. He looked so dejected, that she had not the heart to check his intention of lounging by her side, and he was far too courtly and ready in his manners to give such a meeting the least appearance of awkwardness.
"You are acquainted with the lady of that house then?" he enquired, after a slight pause in the conversation.
"Yes," said Lucy, smiling and looking at him, "and I suspect you know her also."
"Do you know her well?" he said, slightly colouring.
"Oh, very intimately—she is a great friend of mine."
"You know all her secrets then?"
"Well, I dare say I do," she replied, smiling importantly; for, to confess that she had a friend, and did not know all her secrets, seemed a derogation from her own dignity; "but, I fear I shall not know many more, for we have parted in anger."
"Indeed! can that be true—you in anger."
"Yes, yes," said Lucy, looking archly at him; "and what do you think it could be about?"
"I have, indeed, no means of guessing," he replied, with an interest which Lucy attributed rather to herself than her subject.
"About yourself, it was then?" said she, looking slightly aside.
"Impossible!" he exclaimed, delightedly; "have you then been speaking of me?—and what did she say of me?"
"Nothing you would, perhaps, like to hear," she said, with the same archness as before.
"And what part did you take?" said he, eagerly.
"Oh," she replied, laughing carelessly, "I never do things by halves—so I defended you through thick and thin."
"Excellent girl," cried he, enthusiastically, taking her hand, and pressing it warmly, "how can I ever thank you enough for this kindness?"
"Prenez garde," said she, "gossippers are abroad, and there, I declare, is Miss Lovelace's youngest sister going for her music lesson—all Bath will say we are flirting."
"You know how to contradict such scandal by a word," said he; "but that word, for my sake, you will not speak."
Lucy did not quite understand this last speech; but she did not like to say so, and, therefore, murmured a rapid "Yes."
A slight pause followed; and then he resumed the conversation with such a sudden flow of spirits, that Lucy very soon forgot everything in the pleasure of listening to him, and even suffered him to lengthen the walk by taking a longer route. At the entrance to Sydney Place, he took leave of her, and she returned home, thinking over everything he had said. They had only talked on general topics after all; but then he spoke with a deference to her opinion which was very pleasing. She was in very good humour with herself, and resolved that, after leaving Miss Foster to cool for a week or so, she would call and make up the quarrel in the most generous manner she could. Satisfying her conscience with this, she entered the house, and hastily taking off her bonnet, seated herself, with the rest, at the breakfast-table, in good spirits and with a fresh color, contenting herself with a very laconic description of her morning walk.
The foe, the foe is on thy track,Patient, certain, and avenging;Day by day, solemnly, and silently, followeth the fearful past,His step is lame, but sure.
The foe, the foe is on thy track,Patient, certain, and avenging;Day by day, solemnly, and silently, followeth the fearful past,His step is lame, but sure.
It was nearly eleven o'clock before the family assembled to breakfast, and Mr. Villars had already retired to his study, leaving the morning-room to its listless occupants. Maria, being the most active of the family, generally presided at breakfast and tea, and kept alive the yawning faculties of the party. On this occasion, she was busily, and relentlessly rallying Caroline on the last night'stête-à-tête, when Hargrave himself entered. He seemed entirely to have lost the gaiety of the evening before, and to have assumed the gravity of a judge. To Mrs. Villars' enquiries of whether he had slept well, he answered courteously, but gravely; and Caroline afterwards observed to Selina, that the dear creature was quite different when alone with her, and Selina, in return, lispingly suggested, that he might be shy before strangers. He did not, however, justify this remark by any of the little awkwardnesses which so often accompany that feeling. On the contrary, he seemed rather to seek the indulgence of one who is secure of favor, however small the pains he may take to acquire it. Nor was he mistaken. They were prepared to admire him, and his variable humours only gave him an additional charm in their eyes.
"What time do you receive your letters?" he enquired of Caroline.
"About this time," she replied; "are you expecting any? for, if so, you will not have very long to wait?"
"Indeed," he replied, not noticing her question.
At this moment the peculiar double knock of the post-man began to be heard uncertainly, then louder and louder, as, coming round the street, he stopped at their door.
"Here he is," exclaimed Lucy; "I wonder if there is a letter from Mabel."
Two were brought; one for Mrs. Villars, and the other for her guest. They were both written by Mr. Ware; the one addressed to Mrs. Villars, contained a brief, but touching account of the fire, the illness of her sister, and her removal to Aston Manor; concluding with poor Amy's death.
Mrs. Villars slowly read the letter aloud, but when she reached the last few lines, which spoke of her niece's death, a loud shriek burst from Lucy, as she rose and flew to her own room. Hargrave followed her to the door with a deeper interest than he had before displayed, but she had quickly vanished, and he returned to his seat.
"She has been staying with them," said Mrs. Villars, in explanation; "and the dear girl has so much feeling—but, colonel, only think of my sister being at Aston Manor; but, perhaps, I ought not to have told you, as I suppose the servants make free with the place in your absence."
"Your sister is quite welcome to any hospitality my house can afford her; and, perhaps, you will be kind enough to assure her on that point, if she has any doubt. I will, myself, write to my housekeeper, and request her to see to Mrs. Lesly's comfort."
"You seem to take the news of your lost houses with admirable coolness," said Caroline.
"You mistake me, Miss Villars," he replied; a momentary fire lighting up his eye, which made her shrink; "I am not indifferent to the death of our poor cousin—the rest can be repaired—but I take it with apparent coolness, because this is not the first time that these distressing events have been communicated to me."
"How?" exclaimed every one; "and why did you not tell us?"
"Bad news travels quickly," returned Hargrave, evasively; "and it is hardly likely that I should long be kept in ignorance of such a serious accident."
So saying, he opened his own letter, and read it with deep attention, and emotion; a little to the surprise of the ladies, who had already entered upon a discussion on the prettiest mourning dresses which the fashion afforded. His better feelings alarmed, he scarcely knew why, by the frivolity with which the news had been received, he retired to his own room, and taking up his writing materials, he wrote much as follows:—
My Dear Sir,"I regret that I cannot at once obey your summons to Aston; partly, because I think it would be a more delicate kindness to Mrs. Lesly and her daughter, to leave them in possession of my house, under their present affliction, rather than intrude myself upon their attention, just now; at the same time, if I came to you, they might think they were putting me to inconvenience. But we shall soon meet, my dear sir, I trust; when, from your accustomed kindness, I may obtain forgiveness for the past; now, I do not feel worthy even to reply to the praise you so lavishly bestow upon me."In the meanwhile, my poor tenants, of whom you speak so warmly, shall not be forgotten. I will write by this post, to a young friend of mine, an architect; who, if able, shall go down to Aston immediately, with powers to construct a sufficient number of commodious tiled cottages—at the same time, I shall instruct him, that any wish, or suggestion you may be kind enough to make, about any part of the village, shall be strictly attended to."With my best compliments to Miss Ware, and the hope of meeting ere long, I am,"My dear sir,"Your attached pupil,"Harry Hargrave."
My Dear Sir,
"I regret that I cannot at once obey your summons to Aston; partly, because I think it would be a more delicate kindness to Mrs. Lesly and her daughter, to leave them in possession of my house, under their present affliction, rather than intrude myself upon their attention, just now; at the same time, if I came to you, they might think they were putting me to inconvenience. But we shall soon meet, my dear sir, I trust; when, from your accustomed kindness, I may obtain forgiveness for the past; now, I do not feel worthy even to reply to the praise you so lavishly bestow upon me.
"In the meanwhile, my poor tenants, of whom you speak so warmly, shall not be forgotten. I will write by this post, to a young friend of mine, an architect; who, if able, shall go down to Aston immediately, with powers to construct a sufficient number of commodious tiled cottages—at the same time, I shall instruct him, that any wish, or suggestion you may be kind enough to make, about any part of the village, shall be strictly attended to.
"With my best compliments to Miss Ware, and the hope of meeting ere long, I am,
"My dear sir,"Your attached pupil,"Harry Hargrave."
This letter was written with great rapidity, and having sealed and directed it, he lounged back to the morning room. The recent events, of course, formed the topic of conversation; but to all, but Lucy, Amy had scarcely been known, more than by name; and she had retired to her room in an agony of remorse, for her feelings, though seldom deep, were impetuous, and easily moved by circumstances. She remembered Clair's entreaty, that she would not go to the ball, with tenfold bitterness, as she now reflected that, at the moment when she had been rejoicing in unbounded spirits, Mabel had been keeping the sad death-watch by the corpse of her sister. Again, and again she reproached herself as her murderess, flung aside the tinselled dress which had rendered her the ornament of the ball-room, and turned almost indignantly upon Maria, when she attempted to comfort her.
Her sisters, little understanding the nature of her feelings, and wearied with her self-reproaches, soon agreed that it would be better to leave her alone till she should recover herself; but Lucy, who appeared to have little pleasure in their comfort, no sooner found herself alone, than she felt unkindly neglected, and compared them bitterly with Mabel, whose untiring patience had so often borne with her weakness.
In the afternoon, when exhausted by grief, and wholly subdued, she sat crouching over the fire in their little dressing-room, Maria entered with bustling pleasure.
"Oh, Lucy," said she, "do dry your tears, and look bewitching—for who do you think is down stairs—no other than your charming partner of last night, Mr. Beauclerc, who is making himself so agreeable, listening to mamma's touching account of your grief—so that you need not mind his seeing that you have been crying."
"Thank you," said Lucy, without raising her head; "but I cannot come down to-day."
"Oh, nonsense, Lucy—think how disappointed he will be—he may never come again."
"I cannot help it," said Lucy; "excuse me in any way you like—I cannot and will not come—and you will only tease me by asking me."
"Well, I am sure I would never stay up-stairs when a beau of mine was down."
"You do not know what you would do, if you had been as wicked as I have been."
"Come, come," said Maria, "we all are wicked, I dare say; but I would never fret myself to death about it; but I suppose I must go," she said, seeing Lucy resume her crouching attitude; and leaving the room, she went to tell her mother, who, though much disappointed, was forced to make Lucy's grief as becoming and touching as possible, in the eyes of the stranger, though she afterwards expressed herself more candidly, saying—"She had no patience with such fits of the heroics, and trusted her sisters would laugh her out of them."
Hargrave listened with great interest to the account of Lucy's share in the accident by which Amy had first suffered, which he gleaned from Caroline; and when, late in the evening, she appeared in the drawing-room, her eyes swollen with weeping, and her cheeks pale and discolored, he met her with a kind look, which her most sparkling moments, perhaps, would not have excited. He gave her the most comfortable seat by the fire, for which she tried to thank him, but her voice failed her, and seating herself, in silence, she rested her tired and aching head upon her hand.
"You have been staying with Mrs. Lesly, I find," he said, knowing that it would be of little purpose to try to turn her thoughts from the subject that pained her.
"Yes," was the faint reply, followed by a deep sigh.
"Really, Lucy," said Caroline, a little sharply, "you should not give way so, it will not mend matters now."
Lucy had not temper for the "soft answer," and was too spiritless to retort an angry one.
"I think," said Hargrave, "you must have met a fellow-voyager of mine, a Captain Clair—he said he was going to stay with his uncle at Aston."
"Yes," said Lucy, despairingly, "I did meet him; and he said he knew you."
"How did you like him?" he pursued, anxious to make her speak.
"Oh, pretty well," she said, carelessly; but a burning blush kindled brighter and deeper on her pale cheek, as his penetrating eye watched for her reply.
She moved impatiently beneath his glance; but she felt that it was not withdrawn, and painfully conscious of her increasing color, she rose abruptly, and turning on him, for a moment, like the wearied stag at bay, she looked angrily at him, and then hastened from the room.
Still, however, as she once more retreated to her chamber, and shut the door violently behind her, that glance seemed to follow her, not simply inquisitive, but compassionately answering her own angry expression, as if deprecating its violence.
"He must know something about me," she thought. "Could Clair have spoken of her to him, and in the same terms, which she had overheard him use to his uncle, accompanied, perhaps, by ridicule. Yes," thought she, actually throwing herself upon the floor in the vehemence of her passion, "he sees me with Clair's eyes—if he pities, he despises me, as the girl who was only used as the cloak to more honorable attentions to Mabel. I cannot endure this—anything but to be both neglected and despised. There is one, at least," she added, to herself, proudly, "who appreciates me—but this time I will keep my own counsel." She rose, and looked at the glass—but it now only told her that the boasted beauty of the night before had faded before her tears. "I will weep no more," she said, angrily, brushing the heavy drops from her cheeks, "I will weep no more—but, I fear my heart will become hard indeed."
A passionate burst of tears again interrupted her resolutions, and she turned from the disappointing mirror, which had, only a few hours before, reflected a form of airy liveliness, which had even astonished herself.
Of one thing, however, she was resolved; to avoid, as much as possible, the offensive pity with which she imagined Hargrave regarded her; and this resolution was so well kept that she always, after that night, avoided him with studious shyness.